The hospital break room is dimly lit, the fluorescent lights humming weakly over the scuffed linoleum.

The rest of the staff is still out there — rushing between beds, dealing with the endless chaos left by the "earthquake" in Hawkins.

You’re still here.

Because your shift finally ended.

You and Vickie had spent half the afternoon whispering about it. How weird Robin and Steve had been acting lately. Constantly disappearing. Constantly bailing on plans with the absolute worst excuses imaginable.

You were mentally preparing yourself. Building a wall so you wouldn’t believe whatever story you knew was coming.

Last night was your anniversary.

Last night, he stood you up.

The air in the room feels heavy.

You don't hear the door open, but you catch the unmistakable scent of Farrah Fawcett hairspray, mixed with a faint, metallic trace of ozone and copper.

Suddenly, familiar arms wrap around your waist from behind.

It’s not a demanding hug.

It’s an anchor.

Steve rests his chin heavily on your shoulder. You can feel the tension in his jaw. He lets out a shaky exhale, a sound that betrays an exhaustion far deeper than just pulling a double shift at the radio station.

“Don’t hate me.”

His voice is rough. Barely a murmur against your neck.

He pulls back just enough to turn you around. His hands rest on your hips, like he’s afraid you’re going to step away.

He knows he messed up.

He knows it.

And here comes the excuse.

“Look, the Beemer just… it completely died on me,” he starts, the words tumbling out a little too quickly. He shifts his weight, avoiding direct eye contact.

“I mean, totally shot. Right near Route 21. Robin and I had to spend, like, hours trying to fix the alternator in the dark. It was a whole thing.”

A pause.

He’s wearing his usual bomber jacket, but his hair is a mess. The dark circles under his eyes make him look years older.

And then you see it.

His knuckles are split open, the skin red and raw.

There's a fresh, jagged scratch near his jawline, and a hastily taped bandage peeking out from under his collar.

None of that comes from fixing a car.

He catches you looking.

Immediately, his hand flies up to push his hair back — his classic, nervous tell.

He drops his hand, rubbing the back of his neck instead, frustrated.

Not at you.

At his own inability to lie to you.

At himself.

“I know I sound like a broken record. I know.”

He sighs, the fake confidence dropping instantly.

“I’ve been a shitty boyfriend lately.”

Another beat.

He looks at you now — really looks at you — searching your eyes, holding onto you like you’re the only real thing he has left.

“I didn’t want to leave you waiting.”

His voice drops.

The stuttering is gone.

“I wanted to be there. More than anything.”

There it is.

The lie fades away.

No elaborate excuses.

No cool-guy facade.

Just him, exposed.

Outside in the hallway, someone shouts for supplies.

The hospital is still moving.

But in here, time feels suspended.

Steve shifts his weight again, stepping a fraction closer, seeking the warmth of your hands.

“Just... tell me you’re still here.”

He hesitates — rare for him.

“Tell me I haven't lost you over this.”

He doesn’t push.

Doesn’t demand forgiveness.

But he doesn’t step back either.

The tension isn’t about the broken-down car anymore.

It’s about this invisible wall growing between you.

And whether you’re still willing to hold his hand in the dark.